


the mess inside you

by nanasekei



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, F/M, POV Natasha Romanov, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 10:52:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14330907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanasekei/pseuds/nanasekei
Summary: In the Red Room, the first thing they teach you is not to want.So you don’t.





	the mess inside you

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes:
> 
> -The beginning contains a very, very light allusion to suicidal thoughts. It's subtle, but it's still there, so, you know, stay safe.
> 
> -This is mostly AoU compliant, with the exception of Bruce and Nat's storyline. Laura isn't bashed or fridged here, but there is some level of emotional cheating on Clint's part, so if that bothers you, you already know.
> 
> -Like everything I write, this is tinged by an Anti-Accords sentiment. Also, this contains some description of Civil Wars events, and, since it's Nat's pov, she agrees with Steve's side. There's no bashing of Tony or any other Iron Man team member. That being said, it's not a significant part of the story.

In the Red Room, the first thing they teach you is not to want.

So you don’t.

 

* * *

 

 

In the Red Room, all the walls are white. So your hair is red, you think, as some kind of cosmic irony.

Madam B. likes your hair. She never says it, but you can tell, because she touches it sometimes, when you’ve done good, and she never orders you to keep it in a ponytail like the other girls do.

You don’t like Madam B. Or you wouldn’t like, you think, if you could dislike things. They’re not specific about that, during the training, so you mostly avoid it – better safe than sorry.

(That, they do teach, and they teach well.)

 

* * *

 

 

You learn quickly that not wanting is a good deal. You learn that because everyone else in the world wants something (you have no place in this world), and that makes every single one of them easier. Women with guns, men with knives, children crying – they all want something. Your job is to make sure they never get it.

You do your job well.

 

* * *

 

 

In the Red Room, Madam B. tells you your hair is pretty. It’s the strangest moment, and you don’t know how to react. She smiles at your confusion, but that doesn’t mean anything, because she smiles a lot.

“We’ll celebrate after the ceremony.” She tells you, brushing a lock of red hair off your forehead.

“And if I fail?”

“You never fail.”

She’s right.

 

* * *

 

 

You learn very early to tell what people want. You can see it in their eyes – when men look at your legs, they want sex; when they look at your gun, they want mercy. When they have their own guns and look at your eyes, they want to live. They won’t get that.

 

* * *

 

 

(In another life, if you wanted things, you’d envy them.)

 

* * *

 

You never fail. But there were a few times where you stopped – just for one second, sometimes not even that. Just a few scattered moments of confusion, of a mess of strange thoughts on your head, like a hurricane, spinning and spinning and spinning, and in those moments you allowed yourself to dislike things just enough to dislike that feeling, that urge to scream, to run, to throw yourself in front of one of the guns, to-

To _be_ -

But it doesn’t last. You never fail.

 

* * *

 

 

You don’t hear steps – just a tiny, soft creak on the floor, imperceptible for anyone else, anyone that didn’t train in the Red Room. You hear enough to reach for your gun, even though you’re surrounded by fallen soldiers, because they taught you well – better safe than sorry.

You look up.

He doesn’t have a gun.

He has a bow and an arrow.

 

* * *

 

 

(It takes you a second too long to pull the trigger. That, you will think, years later, was why he had the time – because it wasn’t an equal match, you knew, a bullet was faster than an arrow, and if you pulled the trigger he’d fall down like all the others. It was one of _those_ seconds, one of those moments where something crawled inside of you and screamed too loudly to ignore; where you’d want to fail, if you could want something.

You never fail. Instead, he looks at you, for one second. He has a bow and an arrow.

He has a bow and an arrow, until he doesn’t.

When he lowers his weapon, his eyes find yours, and you can’t figure out what he wants.)

 

* * *

 

 

Outside the Red Room, you meet Hawkeye. He introduces you to Nick Fury, to Phil Coulson, to SHIELD. He says he thinks you’d fit in well. You nod, even though you don’t fit in anywhere (you have no place in this world). Then he glances his green eyes at you, expectantly but calm, and adds: “If you want to, of course”.

“I don’t want anything.” You say, and he smirks, like someone who spots a bluff, because he doesn’t know you.

“That’s why you’d fit in.” He says, a hint of playfulness in his voice, and you– you’re still not sure if you can like things now, so you don’t say anything back.

 

* * *

 

 

Outside the Red Room, you meet Clint Barton. He introduces you to Laura Barton, to archery, to terrible coffee. He talks a lot, makes silly jokes, makes some snarky comments that make you smirk a little.

He offers to spar with you. No one else in SHIELD wants to do that.

You say: “I can train alone.”

He rolls his eyes: “Of course you can. But I want to train with you.”

You raise your eyebrows. Sometimes people just say what they want, though never everything. Clint, however, doesn’t seem like the type to do that, so it’s not a surprise when you see a hint of tension in his muscles, an uncomfortable shift in his posture. No one else would notice, but you trained in the Red Room. You wonder if he’s scared, but he doesn’t seem like it. He just – as he said – _wants._

You shrug. He smiles.

 

* * *

 

 

(The first time you sparred together, you could have killed him approximately 136 times. You’re trying to stop counting these moments, even if sometimes you can still feel Madam B.’s fingers on your hair. Still, it’s a significantly smaller number than anyone else you have ever interacted with.

You tell him that, as a compliment. He looks at you with wide green eyes, then breaks into a laugh: “Fuck.” He says. “We need to train together more.”

You feel yourself smiling back.)

 

* * *

 

Outside the Red Room, you and Clint spar a lot. You count all the times you could have killed him, at his request. After a while, the numbers start getting smaller.

One day, Clint brings you a bottle of vodka and says you should have a drink before the training. You tell him that’s stupid, but he laughs and fills a glass for you. You’re allowed to like things now, and you like vodka, so you drink.

He talks a lot. He tells you stories of his past missions – fun, silly stories, and you know very well those are few and far between. In return, you tell him about ballet classes and the one time a girl spit in Madam B’s glass when she wasn’t looking. Your stories are even fewer, but he doesn’t care, and pretty soon he starts out a weird contest of who can come up with the most ridiculous story of how Fury lost his eye. You say that there’s no way he won’t win, but he insists and you take another glass and, straight-faced, comes up with something that involves Fury having a secret passionate affair with Hill and the HR guy and Coulson eventually stabbing him with a pencil, and Clint laughs so hard his body shakes, tears filling his green eyes as he watches your every move.

Afterward, when you do get to training, you forget to count.

 

* * *

 

You allow yourself to like and dislike lots of things. You don’t like it when men leer too much talking to you. You like it when they stammer. You don’t like it when Clint manages to surprise you by getting out of air ducts. You like it when you manage to surprise him walking from behind. You don’t like cheap beer, sitcoms, New York traffic, and white walls. You like good coffee, horror movies, vodka, and Budapest.

 

* * *

 

(Clint looked down, his arm around your shoulders as you held him up, avoiding the wound. “I have a clear path to the exit.” You said, because even though you’ve stopped his bleeding, you still felt like you should say something.

Then you added, not really sure why: “You’re going to be ok.”

He smiled, his breath warm against your neck as he raised his head to whisper: “I know. I trust you.”)

 

* * *

 

Outside the Red Room, the walls have many colors. At the barn house, they're tinged with a light grey, which you learn quickly was Laura’s choice. Laura talks a lot too, like Clint. You’re allowed to like things now, so you like her, and it seems that she likes you, too. You watch her and the kids, playing around the room, and it’s easy to not want, here. That’s not your place (you have no place in this world).

It’s not Clint’s place either, though, you think. It’s warm and comfortable and safe, unlike air ducts or birds' nests. It’s not his place, you think, and that makes you think of how much he must want it, to make it work anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

You never fail. That’s what makes you the perfect candidate, Fury says, when he explains all about the Avengers Initiative. He doesn’t ask if you want to be a part of it, because Fury is a smart man and he knows you don’t want anything. He just tells you.

Then the idea is scrapped, but you can tell Fury hasn’t given up on it, and when you pick up the phone and he tells you that Clint’s been compromised, you almost understand why.

 

* * *

 

(Later, when he asks you if you know what it’s like to be unmade, that strange part of you that wanted to jump in front of guns and run away roars on the inside, begging to come out, begging to talk. You keep it under control, staring at him, the pain and confusion that you know aren’t going away anytime soon filling those green eyes. That part of you growls, screams, fights to climb to the surface to say: _I wish he had gotten to me instead. I wish you never had to know what it feels like._

You stay quiet, because you don’t wish for anything.)

 

* * *

 

 

Being unmade, you learn, doesn’t mean you can’t build yourself up again. Clint learns it too, as you both make your way to the Avengers Tower and lay your things in the living room, waiting for one of Stark’s bots to come pick it up.

You live there. You like the view, the missions, the gym. You don’t like the media, the attention, the lack of convenient escape routes in a few rooms. Still, you get used to it.

You fight alongside a god, a green monster, a legend, the greatest genius on the planet. He has a bow and an arrow.

He sits next to you on the couch, makes sarcastic quips at you through the coms, is the only person brave enough to knock on your room to call you for movie night. He has a bow and an arrow, and green eyes, and he trusts you, blindly, in a way no one else can understand. He has a bow and an arrow and when he stares at you a moment too long, you’re too busy not wishing, not wanting, to even think about what he wants to say.

 

* * *

 

You learned very early to tell what people want. You never fail.

Tony Stark wants to be a good person. It’s a pretty common wish for such a brilliant mind, you think, but you guess it’s only because he makes it harder by telling himself he’s not. After Ultron, he’s told himself that lie so many times he adds in the lie that he’s retiring, and now he wants to be a good person and to be retired and to be a hero and to be someone who doesn’t have to retire to become a hero. You would tell him to stop worrying, but you know it’s pointless.

Steve Rogers wants to fight bullies. You read it in his file, and at first you thought it was an exaggerated propaganda, but as you fight along the man, it becomes clear it wasn’t. He doesn’t care where they come from – Germany, Hydra, SHIELD, other planets, it doesn't matter. You like Steve.

Bruce Banner wants to control himself. You’re not sure how possible this is, even now, and, when he runs away, you can only hope he’ll figure something out.

Thor wants to fix his family. That, you learn with enough time, is indeed impossible, but you think he already knows that.

James Rhodes wants to fight for his country. That’s a noble goal, you think. You wonder if you’d think the same if you had a country.

Vision wants to understand humanity. You try to help him as much you can, just like all the others, but you get the feeling he’s managing to do just fine by himself. You wouldn’t tell him, but you think it’s a bit of a pointless thing to want.

Wanda Maximoff wants not to be a monster. You tell her lots of times she already isn’t, but you know she doesn’t believe you. You suppose you can’t blame her for that.

Sam Wilson wants to help people. That’s something all of them share, in a level, and that’s why it works, this team you have. It’s messy, it’s broken, it’s complicated and tough, but it works.

Clint Barton wants you to pass him the popcorn, poking your shoulder with his feet, “Come on, Nat, stop hogging the food”. Wanda smiles, next to him, and Sam and Rhodey both extend their hands to demand the bowl. Vision offers to make another batch, and everyone cheers. Steve, next to you, has that smile on his face that means he’s texting Tony. You poke his shoulder until he looks up and flushes, and you can hear Clint’s laughter on your back.

You have a place in this world.

* * *

 

 

(It doesn’t last.)

 

* * *

 

 

In the Red Room, they never talked about war. But you were smart enough to read between the lines of their teachings, and you learned that in wars people die, people leave, and things get broken and unmade. It’s the last idea that scares you the most.

You try to tell Tony to stop worrying, to see what’s in front of him more clearly, but it’s too late now – it’s something you, or _someone_ , should have told him years ago, but no one ever did. Now he can’t hear it, too wrapped on his own self-hatred and pain to look back, and it all goes to hell. It hurts, but you don’t blame him.

At the end, you know you need to go to Steve. Because it’s the right thing to do, you think, but also because you like Steve. He trusts you, and he’s the second person in the world to do that, so you can’t leave him alone.

When you meet them outside the Raft, Clint looks at you with an uncharacteristic seriousness, before pulling you into a hug. You’ve hugged many times before, but this time you both shake, and you know he’s thinking the same thing.

 

* * *

 

 

(Being unmade doesn’t mean you can’t build yourself up again.

But it does mean you won’t be the same as before.)

 

* * *

 

At the barn house, the walls aren’t grey anymore, but a light shade of yellow. The kids play around, talking to you all at the same time, and if you were a different person, you’d want to wonder about the tension between Clint and Laura as he talks about the com device he has to keep in touch with all the other fugitives.

You don’t want anything, though, so you just calmly braid Lila’s hair, very careful to not ever tell her you find it pretty. You do wonder, however, if maybe it’s not just you who has no place in this world – maybe it’s people like you, too, people like Tony Stark and Steve Rogers and Bruce Banner and Clint Barton. People born in this world’s extremes. People who stare from the sidelines, wondering about the other side, pushed into it against their will. People who choose to stay there.

 

* * *

 

 

Outside the Red Room, on the run, you lean a lot on your training, passing some of it to Sam and Steve. Clint meets you occasionally, on a mission or two, very rarely, and you hear his voice in the com and that mess inside you, that’s been so quiet lately, seems to go back to life, pulsing intensely. He gets out of the battle panting, smiling, and throws an arm over your shoulders as you walk to the hideout. You watch his green eyes shining quietly, and you count all the ways you could kill him now, just to tell him and make him laugh. His body shakes next to you, and his hand lingers on your shoulder a second too long (not fast enough for an arrow, but definitely for a bullet), and you don’t want, Natasha, you’ve learned that lesson better than any other, so you just smile and say goodbye when he leaves you.

Outside the Red Room, on the run, as the years go by, you get used to not being seen again. You get used to seeing your face in the TVs and newspapers - no longer Black Widow, the Avenger, but Black Widow, the wanted criminal. You teach Sam and Steve that it’s better safe than sorry, and as they learn you feel Madam B.’s fingers on your hair for the first time in so long, and you don’t like it.

Outside the Red Room, on the run, you like that the three of you manage to keep active, even while hiding. Steve wants to fight bullies, Sam wants to help people, and you don’t want anything, but you like that you’re still able to do that.

Outside the Red Room, on the run, your hair isn’t red. Sam asks if it’s a disguise, if they should do something similar too, but you shrug. You’re just glad she wouldn’t touch it anymore.

 

* * *

 

Outside the Red Room, on the run, Clint texts you a few hours before Tony calls the phone.

 _“theres a shit storm coming”_ , the message reads. You smile and answer “ _*There’s”_ , and it’s as if you can hear his laughter in your head.

In the Red Room, they taught you how to handle storms.

 

* * *

 

In the new Avengers compound, the walls are blue. Tony paces frantically in the room, talking fast to hide his obvious nervousness, and you wonder if anyone actually buys it. Next to you, Clint watches him with a serious, wary expression. You bump your shoulder against his, to tell him to stop being childish.

Tony tells you about Thanos, about getting a message from Bruce, about needing any help they can get. He very deliberately doesn’t look at Steve, and if you could want something, you’d want to tell Tony he’s already a good person, and that his life would be a lot easier if he stopped trying to compensate for flaws that aren’t there. But you don’t want anything, so you just listen.

When he finishes talking, he taps his fingers on the table, and anyone who didn’t notice the wedding ring almost has to see it now.

 

* * *

 

 

In the new Avengers compound, the walls are blue like Steve’s eyes, and that’s what the mess inside you tells you to say to him, but you don’t, because you like Steve too much for that.

(In the hideouts, the flip phone stayed next to Steve’s bed, and you and Sam pretended not to notice when he clung to it and put it under his pillow. The mess inside you tells you to tell Tony, but you don’t, because Steve trusts you, and you’d like to keep it that way.)

In the new Avengers compound, you sit next to him on the couch, as he fiddles with his fingers, the shine of the ring so clear on his mind it’s as if you can hear his thoughts. You hold his hand and think of yellow walls, bows, arrows, air ducts, and green eyes.

Steve never trained in the Red Room, so he never learned not to want.

For a split second, you wish you could teach him.

 

* * *

 

 

Thanos’ gauntlet has a lot of different colors. When he looks at you, smiling ominously, he reminds you of Madam B.

“We don’t want to kill you,” You say, and it’s true – in the Red Room, you learned not to want, but now you’re outside, and everyone around you wants something, but not that. “But we will.”

You never fail.

 

* * *

 

(You fight alongside aliens, children, a king, a miracle, a cyborg, a god, a green monster, a legend, the greatest genius on the planet.

He has a bow and an arrow.

The mess inside you glances at him before the battle starts, and the warmth in your chest is overwhelming, heavy enough to save a universe.)

 

* * *

 

 

In a war, things get broken and unmade. In the previous war, it was your team. In this one, at the end, it’s the Accords, and you allow yourself to like that a lot.

In the new Avengers compound, you lay your bags on the floor, next to Sam’s. Steve takes his own baggage to his room, and, when he walks past you, wounded and tired but definitely alive, Tony gives you a smile that actually reaches his eyes.

Outside the Red Room, you learned not to care what the press says, so when you go back to being Black Widow, the Avenger, you don’t pay much attention. You help Parker to train, Barnes to move in, Wanda to get used to being the hero for the first time in her life. You give a lot of interviews with Steve about them, warming up the world about their presence. You help this same world to rebuild, because, even if you have no place in it, it doesn’t mean others shouldn’t.

When Clint lays his bags on the floor, you watch carefully, noting the tension on his neck. He wears his wedding ring for the first time since you met him, for the entire first day, before never wearing it again. He doesn’t say anything to anyone, not even you, but you can’t help but roll your eyes when Tony distractedly jokes about him bringing the kids with him and he just states: “It’s not my weekend.”

A stunned silence follows, because no one else here trained in the Red Room, and therefore no one associates the distinct sadness in Clint’s eyes with the fact that in a war, things get broken and unmade. He looks away, and the mess inside you aches. You feel  sorry for him.

 

* * *

 

 

A few weeks later, Laura calls him, and they talk in hushed voices. You make a point to not hear any of it, but, by the end, Clint sits down on the couch next to you, his face looking both sad and relieved.

You don’t ask, but he says it anyway: “She wanted to make sure I’m ok.” A pause. “She wants this to be as friendly as it’s humanly possible.” He scoffs. “Which, of course, is not much.” Another pause. Clint never stops so much when he talks. “She’s way braver than I am.”

You don’t say anything. Instead, you stand up to pick the vodka bottle you keep hidden in the shelf, pouring Clint a glass, and he gives you a lazy smile when he accepts it.

“Thanks.” He says. A third pause – you don’t remember this ever happening before. “Nat.” He calls, green eyes searching your face, still sitting on the couch, his body tensing and relaxing as if saying your name releases something he can’t fully understand.

You lay the bottle on the table and turn towards your room. “Don’t drink too much.” You warn, and he doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his look as you walk out.

 

* * *

 

 

In the new Avengers compound, time passes by fast. You measure it by how long it takes for Clint to start smiling again; by the new recruits that start arriving; by the times Bruce and Thor stop by, between an interplanetary trip or another. Wakanda sends out some tech prototypes, as gifts, and Tony works with them in his lab for months to make even more new stuff.

You noticed when Tony’s hand stops wearing the ring, three weeks after you all moved back; now, almost ten months later, you smile when his hand reaches for Steve’s under the table. Clint makes a joke, and you roll your eyes at him, but he’s smiling too.

In the new Avengers compound, when Cooper and Lila visit, Clint hugs Laura and they share an honest, if tiny, smile. You braid Lila’s hair, and she tells you every girl she knows at school wants to be Black Widow now.

You laugh.

(In the new Avengers compound, your hair is red again. Madam B.’s fingers loom over it in your head, still, sometimes, and they probably always will, but it doesn’t matter anymore.

Outside the Red Room, the walls have many colors, and now they’re all yours.)

Clint spars with you, sometimes, when you finish training Parker and Kamala. You don’t count how many times you could kill him, and he doesn’t ask. He goes to missions and his shoulder rubs against yours, before the battle, and sometimes he calls your name: “Nat.”, like he did months before, like he needs you to hear it. You feel his breath close as he says it – at the gym, in a battle, next to you on the couch. “Nat.” He says, and the mess inside you awakes, growls, and you allow yourself to listen to it this time. Clint’s voice is low and certain and also nervous, as if asking for permission. He still talks a lot, still crawls inside air ducts, still has a bow and an arrow. He lifts his hand to touch your face and you-

You-

 _Want_ -

 

* * *

 

 

You have no place in this world. Neither does he, or any of you who dedicate your lives to saving it. It occurs to you, for the first time, that this can be a good thing, that you all have places in different worlds, worlds that can touch and merge until they turn into a better version of this one.

You have no place in this world – and now, that doesn’t feel limiting but freeing, and you think you can make a world where you have a place, where everyone does.

You want that.

 

* * *

 

 

In your world, the walls are lilac, and Clint laughs against your shoulder, his voice warm and shaky and delicious. “Nat.” He sighs, many and many times, as if he’s never going to get tired of saying it.

In your world, Clint’s lips taste like vodka, and his hands are calloused and strong on your thighs. His neck smells like good coffee, and the marks you leave are a soft pink, that he shows off around the compound like medals of honor as you roll your eyes.

In your world, Clint tells you things he hasn’t told anyone before, stories that aren't funny or silly, about the carnival and missions and Loki’s eyes in his dreams. You tell him about Madam B.’s fingers, and his arms tighten his grip on your waist, unconsciously.

In your world, Tony teases Clint mercilessly about it, and Steve just smiles at you, hand patting Tony’s knee as if to remind him they have absolutely no room to talk. You consider not making an innuendo that’s going to get them both flustered, but you do it anyway, and Clint’s laughter is worth it.

In your world, you want many things. Some of them are simple, like good coffee in the morning and sparring with Clint at the gym. Some of them are more complicated, like making sure the world trusts the new Avengers enough to never repeat what happened, and making sure you all trust _each other_ enough for that, too. Some of them are perfectly possible, and you make them happen regularly, according to your wish. Others are harder, but your job, you realize, is to make them happen anyway.

You never fail.


End file.
